


Distance

by Dickbutt



Series: Dickbutt Writes Again [7]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Every Genji reunion fic cliche, Gender Neutral, New Old Flame, Other, Reconciliation, Unresolved Romantic Tension, after-action patch up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-08 15:06:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8849656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dickbutt/pseuds/Dickbutt
Summary: Genji returns to Hanamura at the behest of Overwatch and encounters someone he didn't expect to see again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Original reqeuest: Ohohoho how about some of that Genji fanfiction please? [[In reference to a page on the blog]]
> 
> Originally posted at: [Dickbutt Writes Again](http://dickbutt-writes-again.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.

The wind ruffled the tie at the back of his head as he stared down at the city he once knew better than the back of his hand. It was strange, almost, being called back to Hanamura on Overwatch’s behalf. Then again, who knew the streets better than he? (Hanzo was of course another option, but for his staunch refusal to return to his former home – which no one understood better than Genji). There was a resurgence of far-reaching yakuza activity, centering from Hanamura, and Genji had been sent in to investigate upon Winston’s request. Initially – and briefly, at that – the Shimada-gumi was suspected, but he knew better than that, having had a hand in its dismantling himself.

It was, however, not out of the realm of possibility for it to have been any of the Shimada’s former allies, if they ever could have been called that. Keeping enemies closer than friends and all that.

His first two nights were uneventful, recon providing nothing but quiet streets and a deep-seeded pang of nostalgia in his chest. (It was harder to shake off than he thought.) Nothing was overtly suspicious, nor warranting further investigation; sparse rumors also proved unhelpful, and the leads were few beyond that. He could delve deeper himself, if he were to be honest, but he had been advised against taking unnecessary risks. Maybe the mission was a bust.

On the third night, travelling the streets as casually as he was able, Genji felt the familiar sensation of being tailed. _Good._ He was long-overdue for some excitement.

Hanamura’s nightlife, thankfully, had dulled in the last few years, whether by an increase in the crime rate or something else. It left the streets blessedly empty of all but a straggler or two, which was perfect for his needs. He strung them on a while longer, acting as though he hadn’t noticed them, if only to see if they would strike first, but they never did. Just to draw them in, he brightened his display lights to a brief flare before he darted up the side of a building with ease.

His pursuer took the bait, and it wasn’t long until he saw them giving chase from a building behind him, no doubt thinking that they remained hidden. Well, the least he could do was give them a challenge – make them _really_ work for it. It felt familiar – further nostalgic, even – to run the rooftops of Hanamura again, like he was trying to shake off his family’s handlers, or worse, trying to outrun Hanzo, on an attempt to get him to come to training on time. He couldn’t help letting out the chuckle that had built in his chest.

He led them on the wild chase for several minutes, always keeping them in the corner of his eye. They had yet to draw a gun on him, and had absolutely no difficulty in keeping him in their sights throughout the rooftop chase. As the time wore on, the idea of it being the Shimada-gumi – or someone allied with the Shimada – became more and more likely, given the training of this individual. He found himself disliking the idea; it cut a little too close to home. He leapt to another roof, darted across the balcony and down to a lower rooftop at an angle.

Perhaps he’d gotten a little overzealous; after a few more roof jumps he noticed that his little pursuer was no longer close behind. He continued his run – just in case – but there was no sign that they hadn’t actually lost sight of him. After a while longer he stopped, and after a cursory glance of the area, he jumped back down to the street level.

He landed with hardly any noise to indicate the drop and stood, his display lights flashing as he let off steam, before he dimmed them once again. He couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed as he turned away from the building he’d just jumped from.

The knife embedded itself in the wall just inches from where his head once was.

Oh. He’d gotten sloppy.

Wakizashi at the ready, he crouched and prepared himself for a confrontation with his follower. His assailant made themselves known with another flurry of throwing knives shot in his direction before they slinked into the corner of his view, keeping close to the shadows. Either they were playing cautious – which was smart – or they severely underestimated his abilities.

Which was a fatal mistake.

The hatch on Genji’s wrist flipped open, arming him with a set of shuriken, which he flung in a fan in the direction he’d last seen them. There was a flash of metal and he leaned back in time to avoid the knives that pinned his shuriken to the wall behind him, straight through the holes in their centers. Underneath the visor, a grin twitched into existence. How exciting.

The attacker remained on higher ground, attempting to snipe him with their knives, which he deflected with his wakizashi, and returned their volleys with further shuriken strikes. They remained at an impasse for several minutes, and again, Genji was grateful for the lack of people on the street. The recklessness of the attacks would have no-doubt alarmed or injured a bystander.

It was just the two of them.

A whistle of metal beside his head and his attacker was on his level, their own sword drawn to attack, and very, _very_ close to actually striking him. He leapt backward, away from the dangerous edge of their blade, and his arm stretched toward the Dragonblade at his back. He swung at them with the full power of his enhanced speed and was surprised to find them meeting his blow, the blades shrieking against one another as metal slid into metal. Genji allowed himself to be pushed back, and from there entered a more proper stance. They did the same, something about the stance all too recognizeable.

“Get out of my city,” the figure ground out. Something about their voice nagged at the back of his mind.

A simple surgical mask concealed their features but for their furious eyes, a hood drawn up tight around their head; they had minimal armor, if any, on or underneath their dark-colored clothes. A little atypical for an assassin, he thought. But it didn’t matter when they rushed at him.

They were fast, he had to admit; he would also have to admit that they were almost definitely Shimada trained, an ill-omen to be certain. It could even mean they were after him specifically. Genji moved defensively, meeting them blow for blow as he allowed them to drive him further back. Granted, they weren’t leaving him a lot of room to retaliate – he could only parry the blows as they came.

But unlike himself, they were fully human, and when they exhausted momentarily, pausing their  flurry of strikes, he took his chance to fight back. He didn’t want to kill them – not so swiftly, when there were potentially questions they could answer – so he aimed to incapacitate. As Dragonblade sliced toward them, their eyes widened and they dodged back, narrowly avoiding a grievous injury from the near-vibrating blade.

There came a hiss of pain, and he knew they hadn’t fully escaped contact with the weapon. The surgical mask they wore quickly stained with red, and the flimsy strings holding it to their face parted, leaving the cloth to flutter uselessly in the night breeze. They stood deceptively still for several seconds – Genji tried, and failed, to outwait them.

They tore away the remains of their mask and  practically _snarled_ , throwing all their weight into a strike that sent Genji onto his back – off guard. They stood hunched, face shadowed, before they glanced up and stalked toward him, blade poised to kill. Genji made to rise, Dragonblade still in hand, but another well placed slash and the blade was struck spinning from his hand, skidding across the pavement behind them. Before he could even recover from the shock – the astonishment that someone had disarmed him – a foot made contact with his chest and he found himself sprawled across the ground again.

He wondered if his shuriken would be effective at the close range, then decided he couldn’t risk the precious seconds loading them into his hand. He would have to make a dash for the Dragonblade – and likely sustain some form of injury in the attempt. His opponent was certainly formidable; perhaps it was _he_ who would pay for underestimating them.

They stepped underneath the streetlight with him, features illuminated from above as they steadied their blade above his prostrate form. All at once he was assaulted with another sense of familiarity. The curve of their brow, the shape of their face, a line of blood from his sword strike that severed their mask trailing down to their neck. Something screamed out at him to remember, hopefully – his cylinders released a small cloud of steam – he would before Overwatch had to build him all over again. The figure above him curled their lip in distaste.

“I don’t know who you are,” they drawled, trailing the point of their sword up his body, barely touching, “and I don’t care. It won’t matter much longer.”

That voice. _That_ voice. At last, realization clicked inside Genji’s mind and he made contact as best he could with the familiar eyes staring icily down at him.

He wondered if it would matter – if it would even still your blade.

He murmured your name and watched as your entire body stiffened. You gripped your weapon tighter, entire posture threatening to bear down on him as you bristled. Your eyes narrowed in suspicion, darting from one point to another on his figure.

“Who are you? How do you know that name?”

It made sense – was completely expected, even – that you wouldn’t recognize him, changed as he was. He wouldn’t recognize himself either. He steeled himself for another swing of your blade, which remained poised steady at his chest. He said your name again, softer, didn’t miss the way you still flinched.

“It’s me. …Genji.”

You took the news as well as he expected and pressed your blade tight to his throat, forcing his head to tip backwards.

“Shimada Genji is _dead_ , try again,” you snarled, arms shaking with the effort of holding yourself back from slashing him wide open. “ _Who are you?_ ”

He had to think quickly, needed to prove himself to you without resorting to removing his faceplate. It was a measure he wanted to avoid, perhaps for selfish reasons. He breathed in – out – slow and calm, the very tip of your blade nudging at his artificial throat.

“…When we were twelve, I tried to skip out on training. Hanzo did not want to come after me yet again, so you offered to find me yourself.” He watched as your arms relaxed by just a fraction, your eyes still trained on his body for any suspicious motion. He continued to speak, voice wistful beneath the modulation. “You found me hiding in a tree in the garden, and you yelled at me to come down but I just… climbed higher. You tried to climb up after me, but you fell and broke your arm. You didn’t talk to me for a week, you were so angry.”

He watched you for any change, saw your eyes grow wide and after several tense seconds, your sword lowered by another inch. Your posture shifted away from him and he took the opportunity to move slowly – nonthreatening – to his feet, hands away from his weapons. Once standing, he kept his palms open in a gesture of goodwill. You stepped back from him again, keeping your sword between the two of you.

“There’s no… you could’ve…” You shook your head hard, eyes squeezed tightly shut. “You can’t… _be_ here, you’re supposed to be…”

The word is unspoken, but he knew that the news was just as jarring as he thought it would be for you. As much as he wanted to step toward you, he remained where he was, speaking softly to you, like one might a frightened animal.

“I know it’s hard to take in, but it is really me.” His heart lurched as your eyes welled with fat tears and you continued to back away from him, head still shaking. He feared you might not reconcile the man you knew with the cyborg in front of you. “I am a changed man, in many ways, but I am here with you.”

With a hiccup you began crying in earnest, lip curled in displeasure at your seeming weakness in the face of this potential ruse. “You _died_! I went to your funeral!”

Your defenses came down enough for him to chance taking a few steps toward you, hands still open. Denials continued pouring from your mouth and he did his best to ease every one of them between his own hurt, to convince you in word, at least, that he was alive – _real_. You grew increasingly upset by his attempts, but your physical defensive efforts slowly weakened. Your back bumped into a nearby wall, and you gave a start, sword threatening to shake right out of your grasp; he stopped his advance and waited, not wanting to appear a threat.

Through the tears you barely squeaked the words out, resolve finally weakened. “You left me…”

At last, your choked sobbing gave in to a wail, and your sword slipped from your fingers, clattering to the ground. Genji crossed the last feet of distance between you and took your shaking hands in his, artificially steady, distantly feeling the pressure you put on them as you squeezed. The contact only seemed to cause you further distress and you cried harder; he gave in, pulled you into a full embrace, the budding thought of you being repulsed by his cybernetic body distant as you returned the hold. You gripped him like he was the only thing holding your shaking frame together. For all he knew, he could very well have been.

Once the quakes had ceased, he ever-so-gently guided your face to him, slipping the hood from your head to see your features more clearly. The years had hardly changed you, in his eyes; he couldn’t quite pin down how to feel about that. He drew his thumb across the cut he had inflicted, no longer bleeding, but angry red and raised at the edges. You flinched, sucked in a hissing breath when he touched it again.

“…Are you alright?”

“Shut _up!_ ” The sudden lash-out was unexpected, given your sobbing fit just moments before, and you shoved at his hands, standing shoulders squared as you scrubbed at your eyes with the heels of your hands. “God, what a stupid question.”

His hands rose toward you, but he lowered them again, lowered his eyes to the ground. Of course. Things were seldom that simple. “I am… I’m sorry.”

You barked out a laugh; it sounded more like a short cough than anything, but if he still knew you, it was almost the same.

“Well, you certainly aren’t helping your case any.” You sniffled once, rubbed at your eyes again and pulled your arms around yourself, slightly hunched. “…The Genji I knew would never apologize after I yelled at him.”

He remained uncertain as to whether your continued doubt was genuine, or you were trying to lighten the situation. “As I have said, I am not the man I once was.” His voice grew quieter, hesitant. “Do you… still doubt me?”

Your head shot up at the words and you stared at him, arms falling to rest at your sides. He tensed, unsure of what your next move would be – you’d grown so unpredictable – and found himself shocked when you crossed the short space between you and threw your arms around his shoulders, yanking him bodily to you once again. The contact was a bit rougher than anticipated (how little it _was_ anticipated), as though you didn’t quite have fine motor control. But it gentled, your palms spread out against him and helped you press to him, like he would slip right through your fingers and back out of your life. Genji’s hands hovered for several seconds, trepidation as to your actions leaving him uncertain as to how to respond, before he carefully brought them down around you in a loose return of the hold.

“You’re so stupid…” you murmured affectionately into his neck, hand pressed to the back of his head to keep him close. “Of course I know it’s you. Couldn’t be anyone else…”

His arms tightened as he allowed himself to enjoy holding you. “You were… so upset…”

Your laughter remained short and choked, and to his displeasure you pulled away to keep him at an arm’s length, though your hands remained on his shoulders, clear of his vents. The sensation of your fingertips was distant – he could hardly feel it, and it caused him a twinge of longing.

“I spent… the last ten years _grieving._ Mourning you. Living with the fact that you were… gone.”

Your voice trailed off, breathless. He had to fight every inch of his body to not embrace you again.

You laughed again, another short, disbelieving thing, and you rolled your eyes skyward with a small shake of your head.

“But now you’re… you’re back from the dead…” After a pause, you snorted, humor a little more evident, but still wry and wet at the edges. “Forgive me if I’m a little shaken.”

One of his hands rose up to cover yours, and he felt a thrill of delight when you did not yank the appendage away. “I am sorry for – ”

“ _Stop_. Just, God, _stop_ … apologizing,” you ground out, sounding suddenly like you were about to burst into tears again. “Just… How are you…” You stared at him through bleary, reddened eyes, as you tried to parse some meaning from his expressionless mask. You didn’t move your gaze from him for an instant, as though he’d be gone –just an apparition – if you looked away. “How are you _here_?”

“There is much I want to tell you…” He glanced briefly at the darkened street, empty but still too open, any number of prying eyes and ears potentially waiting in the shadows. “But not here. Come.”

You cleared the scene together, recovered your weapons and left quietly. It was encouraging that you let him lead you, tethered tenuously by his loose hold on your arm. The walk was spent in silence. After taking you in a roundabout path, he led you to an old Overwatch safe house – hardly more than a 1DK apartment – given new use during his mission. It still hardly looked lived in, given Genji’s time away and actual level of need; a fine layer of dust coated most surfaces, and motes floated in the space between.

He gestured for you to sit, which you did on the edge of the worn western-styled bed in the corner of the living area, while he wandered back into the small kitchenette. What medical supplies remained were sparse, but he found some gauze and antiseptic and made his way back to you. He debated internally on where to sit for several seconds before eventually settling down beside you (though not too close) rather than one of the couple of chairs in the corner of the room. Wordlessly, he made to take care of your cut, and though it was nothing but a superficial wound, you let him.

The silence was weighted, but not awkward, the distance of the years making it heavy. Genji spoke first, gently dabbing your face with the antiseptic.

“So… what were you doing out there?”

You hissed at the contact, twisting the grimace into more of a smirk. “Could ask you the same.”

“I asked first.”

Your face twinged in displeasure, likely at his deflection, though granted, you had done it first. It was only fair. You leaned forward as he applied a bit of shoddy bandaging.

“…Was patrolling. I’m kind of a… vigilante.” He raised his head, surprised, but it wasn’t as though you could tell, given his face plate. “Sorry for ah, attacking you, by the way… You’re a little conspicuous  with those glowing lights of yours. What happened to stealth, Sparrow?”

He knew you meant it as a tease, but he couldn’t help but stiffen at the old nickname, hand stilling at the side of your face. Your eyes grew wide, a little fearful, like you didn’t know what to expect from him. You pulled back from his touch, and his hand hung in the air empty for a second before he brought it back to himself.

“Shit. Sorry…” You scratched at the bandage, avoiding his gaze.

“No, it is alright.” He straightened, set the supplies aside. He was increasingly aware of the minute distance between the two of you. “…I suppose I was doing much the same thing.”

You laughed and shook your head slightly, your hands curling into the musty bedspread beneath you. “And what would bring you all the way back out here?”

It was his turn to laugh, though his chuckle was quieter, more tense. There was a nervous twinge in his gut; he wondered how you would even react to finding out about what had happened to him. If he should even tell you. But you had been brought together so far – maybe something in the way of destiny, though he was loathe to jump on that reasoning – and he would at least try to appease your silent demand for answers. Your eyes remained focused on him, likely trying to read his posture in lieu of being able to see his face.

The thought of you seeing him brought the nerves back. But he turned from that line of thinking to focus on other things.

“It is a long story.”

You leaned back slightly, posture relaxed, eyes soft – hopeful. “I’ve got nothing but time.”

You sat, fingers laced between your knees, perched on the edge of the bed, and listened to Genji’s hesitant account of your ten years apart. How on the night Hanzo struck him down, he was snatched from death’s door; remade into the form that sat before you, glowing green. How he tore down his own family’s empire at Overwatch’s behest; how that same anger he used against them turned inward. His voice became softer, when he spoke of his teacher, an omnic who quelled the hatred inside him, who kept him from exacting revenge against his brother, who taught him acceptance of his new form.

He didn’t miss the way you eyed his faceplate throughout, and unease crept up his spine. Genji paused in his tale long enough to ask on your change in demeanor, and you bit your lip.

“Are you… are you still…?” You held a hand up toward his face.

Something dark twisted in Genji’s gut, tangled in the nerves that had only grown the longer he spoke. He caught your reaching hand, cradled it gently in his own. Your eyes looked briefly heartbroken, but trained as you were, you managed to school it into a more neutral expression. He adjusted his hold and brushed his thumb over the back of your hand, lowering the limb to rest between you, but did not let go.

You opened your mouth and shut it, clearly dissuaded, but your eyes shot down to where your hands remained linked. You didn’t pull away and Genji didn’t feel the need to either. You cleared your throat after the silence grew too long.

“Have you… seen Hanzo since?”

He admitted that he and Hanzo had both joined Overwatch, though the latter was a recent addition, and recounted briefly their reunion.

“We… still do not speak often. He remains distant.” He looked at you meaningfully, eyes softening behind his visor. “Not all can be so readily accepting, I suppose.”

You snorted, lips tilted in a lopsided grin. “Your brother is an asshole.”

He gave a startled chuckle, but agreed. You frowned suddenly and looked away again, your hand slipped from his.

“I saw him once, maybe three years ago. Didn’t speak to me, but…”

You sighed. Genji didn’t miss that you remained reticent in regards to yourself, hardly spoke up at all while he spoke of where he’d been, where when he’d known you years prior to never keep quiet; never keep still. He questioned as much, softly, and you flinched away from his hand; he hadn’t even realized he’d been reaching for you until he’d pulled the limb away. He kept his arms stiff by his side and you kept yours wrapped around your middle, thumbs brushing the sides of your arms awkwardly.

“It’s not really something you’d care about, I’m sure. Not interesting at all – I mean, you’re the one back from death, been all over the world.” You sighed again, looking down and away from him. “I’ve just been… here.”

His hand reached out – dropped, hopefully before you noticed. The reflex was growing troublesome.

“I do not care because I hope it is interesting. I care because it is _you_.”

He watched color creep into your cheeks and you coughed awkwardly to clear your throat. He waited patiently for you to speak, while you waited for him to drop the subject; it was an impasse. Eventually, you exhaled slowly, leaned over with your elbows on your knees and looked away from him as you began talking.

“When you… when you, ah… _died_ , I guess… and Hanzo up and vanished, the Shimada kind of… snapped? Cut ties with all their allies, lost control of a lot of their business dealings. Then, I guess, _you_ were the one who swooped in a few years after and brought them the rest of the way down. But… once the Shimada-gumi was compromised, it’s like… every other gang just _jumped_ on the remains and started fighting for power like… like rabid dogs. And Hanamura was their battleground.”

Genji watched you intently as you spoke, remembering his time in dealing with the Shimada-gumi. He took a great deal of his anger out on those people at the time. If he had known the effect it would have… no. He would do the same again.

“I was involved right in the middle of it. I mean, my family had been allied with the Shimada – you know that – “ and that was said with a pointed glance in his direction –“but when they cut ties, my family lost a lot of power. They didn’t really have the staying power to join in the fight and sort of folded, but… I just… Hanamura’s my home, I couldn’t just let all these crime families tear the streets apart. So I guess I… became a vigilante. Started fighting back, protecting civilians from getting caught up in all the mess.”

Genji’s brow rose, surprise evident in his tone. “By yourself?”

You huffed. “Yeah. By myself.”

He struggled to find the appropriate words; in a way, he could call himself at fault for your situation, though that was hardly the case. Regardless, he was never more glad for the fall of the Shimada-gumi, knowing that even after their downfall, the aftershocks of their influence were still being felt. Just as he made to speak, your head snapped up, as though you’d come to a revelation, and your eyes lit up when you looked at him, face slowly sporting a wide grin.

“…But not anymore.”

Genji had apparently lost whatever thread you were following, and he gave a confused chuckle. “What?”

“You’re here. You’re _here_!” In your apparent excitement, you grabbed his hand, grinning into the bright green of his visor that his eyes hid behind. “You came _back._ You can… we… you can _help_ me.”

All at once, whatever wistful mood there had been, whatever joy he’d gained from finding you again trailed off into nothing and he found himself sitting in silence. At the lack of what you’d likely thought would have been an eager reply, your face dropped, but you squeezed his hand hopefully, expression imploring.

“C’mon Genji, _please_ , it’ll be just like the old days.” The desperate, tired edge to your voice stings him, and he was once again glad for the presence of his mask. “We can catch up, fight side by side again. We can take our home back _together._ ”

As you struggled to maintain your exuberance, Genji very carefully chose his words, and fought to keep himself calmed.

“Hanamura is my home no longer. …I cannot stay here.”

Your expression faltered again, and you shook your head. You tried to smile but it was weak at the edges, and when you spoke your voice wavered with unshed tears.

“You… can’t be serious. There’s no way that it was just… just chance, right? That we met each other again?”

His resolute silence must have told you enough, because you stood suddenly, letting go of his hand like it had burned you, and you glared at him, eyes wet.

“ _Genji_ ,” you choked out. “Don’t… you can’t _do_ this, can’t just show up after…”

He made to stand with you, and was halfway off the bed when you started yelling. It was both too familiar and painful to be on the receiving end of your wrath.

“I’ve been _struggling_ since the Shimada-gumi fell. You left, Hanzo left – I’ve been on my own, _fighting_ and I can’t do it by myself! I can’t protect Hanamura by _myself_ , Genji. I can’t do this.”

“And I cannot abandon my duties – ”

“Since when do you care about _duty_? You sound like Hanzo. …Shit.” Your tears fell, and you looked toward the ceiling, trying to calm your breathing. “Shit. …You really are different.”

It had been so long that he’d seen you so upset, and it had been such a rare occurrence years ago. But as it has always been, he found himself the cause of your distress; you’d inevitably push him away after an argument as you always had. Briefly, considering all that he’d become, he thought it for the best. Maybe the meeting _was_ purely chance, and after this, you would part ways for good. Maybe it would have been better had he never seen you again at all. His chest ached at the sudden thought.

“I am… I am sorry. Truly.”

Everything in your posture, in your expression, screamed defeat, and you searched his expressionless mask for any sign that there’d be a change of heart. It was unlikely you’d receive one. He called your name, but you’d already begun backing out of the room.

“No. No, it’s okay. You’re right. It’s just like you told me. ” You wiped at your eyes angrily, as though you’re offended by the tears very existence. “You’ve changed. We’ve both changed. And that’s the end of it.”

He watched you leave. Warmth seemed to drain from the small safe house with the slam of the door and he sat in silence, almost unmoving, for the rest of the night.

He finished his mission in Hanamura with no further disruption, no leads, returned to the Watchpoint. He did not see you again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS HAHAHA ;3

“Something troubles you, my student.”

Zenyatta approached where he sat cross-legged in the garden, originally intending to meditate, but he wound up mostly hiding alone – sulking, he might admit, given time. Of course, his master would be the one to notice his change in demeanor. What little surprise there was to be had stemmed from the idea that he should have been found out much sooner than he had been. Zenyatta was incredibly perceptive in matters such as that, not to mention he was the one closest to Genji and likely knew him as well as he knew himself. It wasn’t prudent to lie to him. Genji sighed, head drooping slightly.

“It is the mission to Hanamura,” Genji admitted. Zenyatta gave a thoughtful hum, perhaps surprised; it had been three months since then, after all. “I… saw someone I used to know.”

“…Your mission report mentioned nothing of them.”

“I…” He suddenly wasn’t sure why he hadn’t brought it up. At the time, it seemed like the most reasonable decision he could have made, protecting your identity – looking back, he may have just been hiding his hurt. Out of sight, out of mind, the saying goes. “…I admit, I did not think much of it. It was… not important to the mission.”

“But it was clearly important to _you_.”

“…Yes.”

The Omnic floated serenely beside him, and assumed a similar meditative position. His orbs chimed softly. “Tell me of them, if you’d like.”

There was nothing to hide from his master – and he always felt at ease, willing to speak to him. Something that Genji would always be glad that Zenyatta had changed about him. He spoke quietly, but briefly, of your reunion in the Hanamura streets, how – and he laughed at the memory – you had bested him in your fight. His speech became halting as he remembered the argument, and he stopped short, explaining only that you parted on poor terms.

He did not wish to speak of the pain he had caused you; caused himself. Your heartbroken expression haunted him, and he could not help but dwell on how he had hurt you – how he _always_ managed to hurt you.  When he fell at last to silence, Zenyatta did not press, understanding as he always was.

But he did ask, softly, once he thought Genji had calmed:

“…Do you ever think of finding them?”

_Always_ is what his heart said – _often_ erred more on the side of raw honesty. But instead, he said nothing. Zenyatta hummed, thoughtful – knowing, always knowing. They resumed meditation – or at least his master did – while his mind wandered down other paths, some that hurt, and others less so.

He’d definitely entertained the thought once or twice, of bringing you to Overwatch. He could keep you close, maybe find you the assistance that Hanamura so desperately needed, quell the hurt in your eyes at his seeming betrayal. But he knew you would refuse outright; your pride was something to rival even Hanzo’s. You were always loath to request assistance(and the memory of you begging him to stay stung all the more at the thought). You preferred to get things done on your own, always stubborn.

That, and the matter of whether or not he would ever find you again.

And whether or not you’d let him.

 

* * *

 

The chill winds bit at the few exposed parts of your face as you staggered through the near-barren nighttime streets of Hanamura. A rough encounter with a group of Yakuza thugs had gone sideways and sent you running back to your base of operations; you’d narrowly avoided the city’s actual law enforcement on the way back.

Your breath heaved as you fumbled your keys into the lock of your small apartment, and you nearly fell to the floor once you’d gotten the door opened. You slammed it shut behind you, double-checked the locks and sagged against it, worn to your bones. After a moment’s reprieve you hissed through your teeth, a hand pressed to the hot, still-bleeding wound in your side. You dropped your sword into the old umbrella rack beside the door and limped to your room, tearing off clothes as you went.

You’d gotten unlucky – not for the first time, at least, but it was the first time in a long while. The bullet was still inside you, a clean wound with no shrapnel, but that was as far as your luck went; it stung like a bitch, to boot. The entirety of your right side ached and burned, thrumming sharply with each beat of your pulse. And you’d have to destroy yet another shirt. It was a shame, you’d liked that one.

Down to just pants, you bit back a pained sound as you dug through a low cabinet for what little medical equipment you had on hand. Once retrieved, you stumbled into your tiny bathroom, leaned heavily against your sink and braced for what you were about to do. Wouldn’t be the first time you’d removed a bullet from yourself, either. And at the rate you were going, it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Thirteen agonizing minutes later a bloodied bullet dropped with a _plink_ into the sink basin to the sound of your exhausted groan. Blood bubbled from the aggravated injury, and with a prolonged whimper you absently smashed a nearby towel into your side, ignoring the way it burned. (Later you’d kick yourself for destroying another towel, you really had to stick to using the stained ones.) You stood in the bathroom, sweat-slicked forehead pressed to the cabinet mirror, and waited.

Eventually, you moved on shaky legs back into your room, wanting nothing more than to dress the wound, down some painkillers and get some blissful _sleep_ , but something needed taken care of first. By the time you got to the balcony door, bloody towel abandoned somewhere on the way, your legs were much steadier, and you slammed open the sliding door, peering out into the darkness.

“Alright.” You leaned against the door jamb. “So how long are you  going to just stand out there staring at me, instead of standing in _here_ explaining yourself?”

Genji dropped from your roof ledge, body flickering into light as he revealed himself. By his posture he could have been embarrassed, but otherwise you had no way to tell. He ducked his head slightly with a quiet sound and you rolled your eyes.

“Did you forget I was trained by the Shimada too?” You shook your head, then gestured behind you. “Anyway – _in._ ”

You turned back to your apartment and heard the door click shut behind you, so you pointedly ignored him as you searched out your misplaced gauze, only a little chilled from the night air. He remained standing in the middle of your room after you found it, almost unnaturally still, and though you were halfway waiting for him to say something – maybe make an excuse, you weren’t sure – you weren’t going to be idle about it.

Perched on the edge of your bed, you laid out the remainder of your supplies and unrolled the bandaging. Your fingers were still somewhat tacky with dried blood, though you doubted it mattered since it was yours in the first place. You worked in cool silence, eyes focused absolutely on the work your hands were doing. The out-of-place fixture who decided to turn up unannounced was negligible. If he left, it would be just as well.

You didn’t notice your hands had started to shake until the bandaging had started to slip, not tight enough to hold the packing to your wound. You hissed in displeasure, started winding it again and found your fingers fumbling, whether from exhaustion or pain. The roll slipped right out of your hand and into his; you very nearly jumped, not realizing he’d gotten closer. He made a move for your side and you reflexively flinched back, causing pain to ripple down your side.

“What are you doing?”

You moved to snatch up your stolen bandages and made another pained sound when you moved too quickly. The green strip of his visor leveled with your eyes, which you narrowed at him.

“I want to help you.”

A cold, barking laugh erupted from your throat and you went to take them back again. “Oh _that’s_ fucking rich – ”

“ _Stop.”_ His voice was firm and your mouth snapped shut with an audible click. “Let me.”

His voice belied the gentle way he took the gauze, metal fingertips still cold from lurking outside, and you shivered. Kneeled before you, Genji undid all your sloppy work and began to properly wrap your midsection, paying special mind to the still-tender area of your bullet wound. You wanted to cross your arms, show some sign of annoyance even if it made you look a scolded child, but it would only serve to get in the way, so you leaned back, gripped your bedspread in alternating clenches.

“Don’t they always say to leave bullets in?”

The quiet hum of his voice almost startled you enough to jump. As it was, you merely stiffened against his touch at the continued protest of your injury.

“Shut up,” you huffed. “…I just don’t want to deal with it later.”

“So you perform self-surgery?”

You grit your teeth and squeezed your eyes shut. “ _Stop talking._ ”

It was slow work, his fingers moving careful and diligent over the surface of your body, ghosting over old injuries as he went, almost reverently. His proximity sent a sense of unease, or something just _off,_ at the base of your skull, a nagging tingle of discomfort. It was too intimate, too familiar, and every nerve of your skin _screamed_ for you to shove him off and shout  him out of your apartment. But you bore it in silence, jaw clenched, even as his digits brushed gently – fond – against the skin of your waist. You drifted off internally, away from the stimulus. The entire situation felt unreal, like you were in a twisted dream; maybe you were, given how much blood you’d lost.

“Here.”

You looked up to see him offering you a shirt – clean and comfortable. Oh, he’d finished already. Wordlessly, he got you to carefully raise your arms, and you tried to hide the wince you gave at the pull to your injury at any movement. He aided in easing the cloth over your head, slipping your arms through the sleeves. Your eyes prickled – _too close, too close._ When his hands lingered a little too long on your shoulders, you literally shrugged him off, put your walls up again.

He stepped back – the distance widened. You jumped to your feet, pain a distant, inconsequential thing, and crossed the room to widen it further.

“Okay, great, so what the hell do you want?” Your shoulders slumped; as much as you wanted to put fire into your words, you were too tired in too many ways. “…Why’d you come back?”

His body rocked as though he was making to walk forward, but he stopped the motion fluidly. He didn’t speak for several more seconds, during which you began to grow impatient. Just as you were about to speak up, his voice reached you, soft and hesitant.

“…I came back for _you._ ”

Your harsh laugh was sudden, triggered by the just as abrupt sharp pain in your chest. He flinched back, a tiny motion, but caught by you nevertheless. It was almost disgusting, how your heart jumped at the words, how you still clung to such hopes after you’d been hurt before. Genji Shimada was a man who had always excelled at getting underneath your skin, and you were all the more foolish for letting him do it.

“Uh-huh, sure, what the _hell_ do you want from me?”

You knew it was a hard question when he went quiet again, and you were half tempted to just shove him out the door, take your painkillers and cry yourself into a fitful sleep. But you didn’t. You stood there, and you waited, because… You weren’t sure. Maybe it was because you didn’t have the energy to fight him, or maybe it was just because it was Genji, and… There was a little thrill of hope that surged around your heart through all the pain.

Maybe. Just… maybe.

“I have been thinking…” He spoke, at last. He clasped his hands in front of them, the green line of his visor focused on the movement of his own fingers. “Thinking of you. Of the things you said. What you asked of me last time…”

You nodded, silently, unable to trust your own voice. Like the flutter of a bird’s wings, the hope rose. You must have been transparent, as Genji’s voice became more confident, his posture open.

“By my obligations, I could not stay with you, but…” His hands curled into earnest fists as he gestured to himself. “You could come with me. To Overwatch.”

The hope he’d kindled was immediately snuffed, your mood soured, and your face twisted into a grimace of displeasure.

“I’m not about to abandon my home like _you_ did.”

He shook his head vehemently, took a step toward you. “You would not be abandoning Hanamura. You abandon _nothing_ by seeking help.”

“And what help would _Overwatch_ give me? What stake do they have in Hanamura?”

“You have a knowledge of the gangs here that nobody, not even myself possesses. With your help, Overwatch could help so many people by removing the Yakuza from this area.”

“I’m doing _fine_ on my own,” you insisted. You wrapped an arm around your side, hopefully conspicuous, as the heated throbbing in your side increased.

“Yes, and how long until you catch an unlucky bullet in a place that you cannot patch _on your own_.”

His harsh tone caught you off guard and you found yourself wilting. Your side throbbed as a painful reminder, because _of course_ Genji would be right in that. You stumbled back toward your bed and slumped down with a sigh; you could feel the wound threatening to bleed again if it already hadn’t started.

“Yeah, okay, and let’s say I _do_ decide to go with you. What then?”

Your voice was tired – _you_ were tired. Genji came to sit beside you. You did not fight him, even as he moved closer. He was quieter with proximity, you noticed, and his lights dimmed.

“We would help Hanamura with the resources at our disposal. You would be safe with me – with _us._ ” His hand reached out to graze your arm in a slow, hesitant motion. “You would not be alone anymore.”

You choked up, and your throat became thick with emotion. It would have been so easy to give in, to just go along with what he was saying and just let _go._ But he could’ve been stringing you along – like had last time – like he _always_ had; but Genji was nothing if not a well meaning fool. Your shoulders shook and you curled in on yourself, slapped a hand over your mouth to stop the ugly sobs from leaking through.

“ _How_? How am I supposed to _trust_ you, when you…”

A hissing sound caused you to look up, and you saw Genji’s hand wrapped around the lower half of where his face would be. The visor pulled loose with a faint _click_ , and Genji lowered it with trepidation. His arm dropped to hang loose by his side, the visor still gripped tightly in his hand – your breath caught. Though he was irreparably scarred and changed, beneath damaged tissue, cybernetics and aging, it was still your Genji, the one who you had fought with and loved and lost all those years ago, and you found yourself trapped within his amber gaze.

“I have failed you many times before.” His eyes – soft, warm, sad – refused to leave yours. “I refuse to fail you now.”

A stray tear slipped from the corner of your eye and you quickly brushed at it, defiantly. Underneath the scarring his features drew tight; your darting eyes caught his fingers tightening around his visor, likely itching to replace it. He exhaled.

“…Please. Trust me.”

You broke eye contact first. Your hand crept up and slid around the one he held the visor with. You did not let go.

 

* * *

 

From the Watchpoint Comm. Tower, Winston watched as Genji’s communicator went live again and traced him back to the Orca.

“Genji, great to have you on a secure line again!” Winston greeted. “The mission went well, I take it?”

Genji chuckled quietly, “Of course, Winston. All is well.”

“Excellent! Did you get in touch with your informant?”

“I did.” He laughed again, brighter. “But, perhaps, this would be something better discussed when we get back to the Watchpoint.”

Winston nodded, even though he knew Genji wouldn’t see it, though he did follow it up with an _Of course._ He heard Tracer laughing in the background of Genji’s comm before she cut into the line on her own.

“We’re all en route to the Watchpoint, big guy, ETA 20 minutes!”

And it would have been innocuous enough, but the way she phrased it _“we’re all”_ was suspicious enough to warrant a question. In lieu of an answer, Tracer laughed loudly and hung up on him, and refused to answer any of his subsequent calls until the Orca touched down at the Watchpoint. Curious, but a little irritated, Winston made his way down from the Comm. Tower to intercept them.

Tracer stepped off the carrier with the widest grin he’d seen her wear in a long while. A few members of the team – mostly those close to the resident cyborg – had gathered in the hangar, likely to welcome Genji back. But most were perplexed by Tracer’s giggly demeanor – especially given Genji’s lack of appearance. Winston approached, adjusting his glasses.

“Where’s - ?”

Tracer raced forward and slung her arm around Winston’s wide shoulders.

“He’s just givin’ ‘em a little pep talk is all, they’ll be out soon.” The statement was given with the same face-aching grin, and she just narrowly avoided dissolving into another fit of giggles. “Though you can guess why Genji was so insistent on goin’ back to Hanamura~”

It only raised more questions than it answered, and as Tracer continued into the base, Genji finally emerged from the Orca with a stranger in tow, hands clasped tightly, and the cyborg with – dare it be said – a spring in his step, so to speak.

The welcoming party was more curious than anything, and though the newcomer – Genji’s supposed informant – received them with trepidation, a deep bow and a genuine _thanks_ to Zenyatta had them warming up quickly, Genji at their side all the while.

Hanzo watched from the edge of the hangar, and though the years had changed them all, he recognized you almost immediately. It was strange to see you again, especially at his brother’s side, but it was familiar enough that he felt an ache of nostalgia – something he hadn’t allowed himself in a long time. It was almost… pleasant.

And then you spotted him.

It was actually quite likely you’d had your eye on him the entire time, but for the sake of manners – and perhaps for the purpose of building up tension – you’d drawn no attention to the fact. But when your eyes landed on him he drew up, straight backed and shoulders squared as you approached with your face deceptively impassive. He could hear Genji chuckling from behind you.

“Hanzo,” you spoke, coolly.

He nodded once, and you stopped just short of him, maybe an arm’s length apart. He thought quickly about what he could say to you; his brother had long since forgiven him, but you were another story entirely. You were an enigma to him in years passed, and through all the years you remained as such.

He cleared his throat, opened his mouth to speak, and your fist met with his jaw hard enough to make a _crack_ with the impact.

He reeled back with the blow, off-kilter but not thrown to his feet – he was proud of the fact he’d hardly made a sound outside of a pained grunt. He recovered quickly, though his face ached, and he rubbed the spot where you’d struck him; he watched, distantly amused, as you shook the pain out of your fingers. You smiled.

“Alright,” you said with a chuckle. Genji came up behind you and squeezed your shoulder. “We’re good.”


End file.
